


Welcome To Night Vale: Supplementary Broadcasts

by CommunityRadio



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fake Episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunityRadio/pseuds/CommunityRadio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broadcasts of the Night Vale Community Radio Show which never made it to the mind of Joseph Fink, and bored deep into my subconscious instead.<br/>In the format of normal Night Vale Episodes, narrated by Cecil.<br/>Weather included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a normal, rather boring day in Night Vale. A day which necessitates the dreaded... Yellow Journalism.

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man. They are both changed. They have seen things. They have seen things...together, from the same Earth. The sound of clinking glasses betrays their camaraderie.

Welcome... _to Night Vale_.

Today, listeners, is a perfectly ordinary day. The rats are chirping, the birds are scurrying about in the sewers, and the sun is sucking up all the joy, love, and light which humanity has to offer. Yes, all in all, a perfectly normal day. Nothing strange whatsoever is happening is our small, quiet desert town. The station, the radio station, is broadcasting. My voice is shooting off at light speed to your receivers, and into the cold dead void of space, where someplace, somewhen, some _thing_ might hear it. Will hear it. It's just a matter of time. Time, and that great cosmic chance which dictates every moment of all of our lives.

Listeners, I desperately want to tell you something, but there is simply nothing to tell. Valarie Colgin is doing her Sunday shopping, as she always does, week after week. The light bulbs in the local 7/11 are flickering, and the walls are bleeding purple blood. But they always do that. Somewhere in the desert, an electric kettle comes to a boil. It's not plugged in. There are no outlets for miles. There is no civilization for miles. The kettle will stay boiling for years to come, until someone stumbles upon it and fixes themselves a nice, hot cup of Earl Grey.

Ugh. Today is so painfully average, Night Vale. It's so _pedestrian_. Just another day amid the trillions that that were, and the infinity that have yet to be. Maybe, just once, all the interesting things are happening somewhere else. Maybe the universe decided that Manville, Wyoming, home to 95 people, has less than its fair share of interesting things. Maybe the universe decided to borrow some interesting things from us to give Manville, Wyoming. I hope Manville, Wyoming, survives these interesting things, just as I hope that we survive this boring, boring day.

Have you ever tried taking a bath with a drop of lavender in the water? It's very relaxing. I, uh, recommend it highly to anyone looking to unwind.

Intern Maureen is sleeping on the job. I sent her to get a cup of coffee, and she did, but now she's passed out on the floor, laying there in a fetal position, snoring softly. I would get her a blanket, but the air is already so warm, so.. heavy. She hardly needs one.

_-Cecil yawns-_

It's so hard to stay awake on days like this, listeners. Nothing demands your full attention. It's so easy to just go through the motions and lose yourself in the mundane. Anyone from me, a radio host, to a grocery store clerk, to a computer programmer, to even a hunter of demons and creatures of the night, can very easily leave everything behind and fall into a dreamlike... trance.

And now, a word from our sponsors:

Do you like doors? Do you like _The_ Doors? Do you like vinyl records, despite the fact that no one really listens to them anymore? Well, then, this product is for you. It's the perfect product for people who like doors, _The_ Doors, and vinyl records. We don't know why, but it is. We certainly didn't design it to appeal to that audience. We didn't really design it to appeal to _any_ audience. In that box on the business plan where it said “Intended Audience,” we just kind of wrote “TBD” and forgot about it. Our marketers were mad, but after a couple of field tests, we figured out that people who like doors, _The_ Doors, and vinyl records, would like our product. So, if you like doors, _The_ Doors, and vinyl records, please give our product a try. _The Product_ \- _We didn't think of a slogan either._

I bring you now breaking news from Don's house. Don has just dropped an expensive plate, which has shattered on the floor. It is broken. Don is broken. He pretends that he isn't, just like all of us do, but somewhere deep down inside of him, just like in all of us, lies a fractured soul. Don has hastily duct taped it together, just like we all have, but it won't hold. Not forever.

Intern Maureen has started cooing in her sleep, like a roosting pigeon. Sleepy summer days, Night Vale. Sleepy, sleepy summer days.

I've just gotten a message from Station Management. “Be more interesting,” they say. Well, they don't so much _say_ it as they do howl it into the deepest recesses of my mind, but the meaning is clear. On days like these, Night Vale, where nothing is happening and the air is taken up by dead broadcasts, we have to resort to... _Ye_ _llow_   _Journalism._

My hands are shaking, listeners. My breathing is getting gradually more shallow.

 _Yellow Journalism_.

I look for mercy in the universe. There is none. Only preemptive guilt.

I am reaching for the key around my neck, listeners. I take it off its chain, and unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. Intern Maureen's peaceful slumber has turned into a fitful, twitching dream. I think, listeners, that she is having a nightmare.

I reach into my drawer and take out a small golden circlet inlaid with topaz and opal. Listeners, I am putting this circlet on my head, and-

Pamela Winchell. Mayor, or something else? You don't know her. You haven't met her. She could be anything, work for anybody. Is Pamela Winchell working for the complete and utter destruction of Night Vale? Is she planning for this city to join Sodom and Gomorrah in the flames of God's vengeance? She might be, Night Vale, she might be. More on this story as Pamela continues developing, or not developing, her nefarious schemes.

And what about those... _s_ _cientists_ in town? What is it that they're studying? They may be studying _you,_ listener. A number of forces and beings already do, of course, but this is _different_. They are outsiders. Everyone knows that a government may spy and experiment on its own citizens with impunity, but for outsiders to do it? Unheard of. Sure, aliens may rectally probe you, or subject you to vivisection, but they would never publish their findings in a _journal!_ That's just bad manners. That's what these scientists are. Impolite. Impolite, and with unclear motives. And before you say anything, it's _different_ with them. Be afraid, Night Vale. Be afraid, and patronize news media.

Do you remember that local 7/11 I mentioned earlier in the program, with the flickering lights and bleeding walls? Sure, it's all according to code, but is it safe for your children? Not the blood, I mean, or the lights, but the Slurpies. They might give your child brain freeze, listener. Your child's brain might turn, just like that, to ice. Do you want an ice-brained child, Night Vale? One which sits in the corner, looking at you with dead eyes, from which emanates the cold indifference of the universe? Do you _want_ that, Night Vale? Think of the children.

Intern Maureen is screaming in her sleep, her subconscious hearkening back to the days when her mother could protect her from all, no... a paltry few, of the evils in the world. She cries, terror coursing through her veins, and I take you now...

To [the weather](https://soundcloud.com/joseph-ozment/back-around).

There are riots in the streets, Night Vale. Protests. Picket lines. People hounding scientists and Pamela Winchell and the local 7/11. They're even trying to get at Intern Maureen, despite the fact that all she did was take a nap. I think...Or do I? What is even the precise nature of ownership, or, for that matter, thought? That we've had quite enough _Yellow Journalism_ for today. I am taking off the small golden circlet inlaid with topaz and opal, and putting it back in my drawer, then locking it, and hoping that we never, ever, have a boring day ever again.

If you want a stable municipality, Night Vale, live the most interesting life that you can. When faced with a decision, ask yourself not why you are there, or who these people are, or for what reason they have abducted you, but instead which course of action would leave you with the best story to tell later on. That is how you lead an interesting life. Not by waiting around for interesting things to happen, but by seeking them out at every possible opportunity.

You might die doing this, and that's okay. What is life, after all, without death?

It is eternal. Eternal, and full of incomprehensible pain.

With death, it is only the latter.

Stay tuned for your fair share of that, Night Vale, and good night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proverb: Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Throw out your rating. It is worthless. Kneel, clasp your hands together, purposefully break your own femur, and pray, pray, that you never get to feeling a one.


	2. The Night Vale Comic Con: A Supplementary Broadcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Night Vale Comic Con is taking place, and everyone is having their fair share of fun.

Your rent is late. It was due the day of your birth, and you still haven't paid it. If this goes on, you'll be evicted.

Welcome... _to Night Vale_.

Today's headline story is the following: Personalities from the world over flock to attend the Annual Night Vale Comic Con. Figures such as Andrew Jackson, Marie Curie, Genghis Khan, and local crackpot writer Joseph Fink will be in attendance. It is worth noting that traditional autographs will not be given, due to a ban on pens and pencils. Instead, autographs will be provided in the form of a small piece of the celebrity's soul, neatly bottled in a shiny crystal flask. This applies to everyone but Genghis Khan, who will, in fact, carve his initials into your forearm with a traditional Mongol Sabre. If you have worries about catching blood-borne diseases at the Con, rest easy knowing that the blade is ceremonially disinfected after each use. You should instead worry about catching death, which is altogether worse. Don't tell anyone, but Genghis hasn't quite gotten this whole “autograph” thing down yet.

In other, related news, the City Council has outlawed, completely, cosplay, in all its forms. This, I think, is the right decision. And, listeners, I don't say that just because I'm paid to manually turn the cogs in Night Vale's propaganda machine. I really think it's the right decision. Let me explain:

When you put on a costume, you assume someone else's identity. You, for all intents and purposes, become _them_. Your voice becomes _their_ voice, your gait becomes _their_ gait, your crippling sense of self-doubt becomes _their_ crippling sense of self-doubt, and, as we all know, everyone has a constitutional right to their own crippling sense of self-doubt. To take that away, to infringe upon it, is barbaric.

Besides, what if the two of you get confused for each other? What if, while cosplaying as Alexander The Great, you are stopped on the street and questioned about your blatant warmongering and imperialistic tendencies? What if Alexander The Great, while you are cosplaying as him, gets stopped on the street and asked about where he was last night, and who he thinks he is, and whether or not he even _cares_? What if Alexander The Great has to console and reassure your significant other that yes, you do love them, and that all people make mistakes, and you hope to do better next time? What if Alexander The Great has to handle your breakup, when your significant other tells him that there won't _be_ a next time, and that the two of you are _through_? What if Alexander The Great spirals into centuries of depression and alcoholism, just because you wanted to dress up as him for the day? What then?

I realize also, of course, the well-documented effect of the cosplayer being physically absorbed into the cosplayee, doomed forever to live in their mind, bound in a body that isn't theirs, but there's an emotional side to these things as well, and I think that we as a society would do well to think about it.

And now, traffic.

Interstate nine and three quarters is experiencing congestion on the exit to Main Street. There are piles of mucus everywhere, piled several yards high, and they are blocking it. We don't know where the mucus came from, or whose it is, and we don't plan on finding out. Some things are better not to know. Some things are better to just shovel off to the side and forget about. The exit to Main Street is expected to be operational in two to three business days. Anyone trying to get into Night Vale during this time will have to, before nightfall, set up a shanty town with sturdy walls and prepare for attack. The highwaymen are ruthless, listeners, and they take no prisoners.

This just in, local crackpot writer Joseph Fink has entered into one of his usual frenzies. Bystanders are taking high-quality video through their iPads, focused on recording the moment rather than living in it. Fink, oh naïve Fink, has started rolling on the floor, screaming. In between screams, one can catch tidbits such as, “This can't be! This place is fake! I made it up! I pulled it from nonexistence into being! This can't be! Is that award-winning young adult author John Green? Wow! I'd like his autograph. That man has three heads! No one has three heads! That's not how people work! I took biology in high school, I should know!”

Oh, Joseph Fink. Always a hoot when he visits. Something in his words. They capture reality so well. Condense the complex into the simple. This place is fake. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you will see through the Veil of Māyā and into the truths of the universe.

Listeners, Intern Stacy has just come into the studio. She was at the Con, but food there is very expensive, so she just stopped by to grab a cup of orange juice and a plate of yesterday's fried rice. I asked her what she did today, and, I have to say, Night Vale, this Comic Con business sounds like a lot of fun.

I mean, all those creative minds in one place, all that artwork and literature and merchandise, all those people gathered together to celebrate their temporarily undying love for various pieces of popular culture. It sounds fantastic. From shooting galleries, to deadly medieval swordfighting, to burlesque dancers, the Con seems to have it all. Intern Stacy is drenched head to toe in blood, sweat, and tears. She's scarfing her food down, just so she can get back to the fun stuff faster.

Stacy, tell me again about what you did in that Colosseum. No, not with the sewing needles. Yes, that, tell me about that.

Remarkable.

Stacy's just regaled me with the story of her fight with two lions, a bodybuilder, Jon Bon Jovi, and a functioning version of the T-800, made famous by the 1984 documentary _The Terminator_. I've never imagined so much joyous viscera. All participants are perfectly fine, of course, after emergency surgeons stitched on some bits from the lost and found, then proclaimed the situation, “All right, I guess, but I also never went to Med School, so what do I know?”

Carlos, my perfect, _perfect_ boyfriend, has also been at the Con. He was there to see a panel by Stephen Hawking about how computers are magic and no one really understands how they work, they just do, but it turns out that Hawking wasn't really in attendance. The administration had simply painted a squirrel green and tossed it up on stage with a copy of _A Brief History of Time_ , hoping that no one would notice. It took about half an hour, but someone eventually nudged the person next to them and whispered, “Hey, is it just me, or is that _not_ Professor Hawking up there, but instead just a green squirrel?”

The person next to them said, “Hey, you know what? You're right. That is just a green squirrel. But, I mean, it has some interesting ideas about how computers are magic and no one really understands how they work, they just do, which is the name of the panel, so I think we should just let it keep going. I, for one, am enthralled.”

Only after the panel ended did the general public, Carlos included, notice that they had just sat through two and a half hours of a green squirrel scurrying around on stage. No one threw a fuss, though, because that's just how life is. Full of lies, deception, and seconds forgotten in the wind. Yes, Night Vale, if you threw a fit whenever your time was wasted, you would have no time left to waste.

Intern Stacy has just texted me to report that Former President Harry Truman will stop taking questions in approximately ten minutes. If you want to make him feel bad about bombing two cities, killing thousands of civilians, and not stealing Joseph Stalin's moustache for himself, do it in these next ten minutes. It might be your only chance.

And now, [the weather](https://soundcloud.com/lit-arbor/swim).

Joseph Fink's mental breakdown is still going strong. Listeners, I think he's trying to tell us something. Maybe this is an avant-garde piece of performance art. You never know with these creative types. But what could it mean? Email your interpretations to us at NVCR@nightvale.gov. We will give them to our experts for analysis, and they will inform you whether or not your interpretation is correct. Well. They'll inform you as soon as they decide what art is, and whether or not it can have a meaning at all, objective or otherwise. Your answer should arrive, at the latest, in that moment between the universe working and it not working any more. If your answer arrives later than that, congratulations! You've survived the heat death of the universe.

Con officials are dragging Joseph Fink, kicking and screaming, to the Hospital. Young adult novelist John Green gives Intern Stacy a knowing look. What is it for? What does he know? Perhaps he simply pretends to know, too terrified to admit that he does not. We've all been there.

It appears that Lord Byron has just now departed, riding a pale horse into the sunset. Death, swinging its scythe, runs after him. "You bastard!" it yells. "You stole my horse! You bring that back!"

Lord Byron does not listen to Death. He has places to be.

One by one, people begin to leave the Con, pulled away by whatever obligations they have accrued over the course of their lives. Friends, family, the need to bandage up wounds before they fester, it's all important. More important than a Comic Book Convention, one which is slowly fading into nonexistence as the Convened disperse.

Stay tuned next for seven hours of Surgeon General's Warnings. Oh, nope. Looks like I read that wrong. Stay tuned next for seven hours of  _General_  Surgeon's warnings. Advice that may or may not be health related, and that you may or may not have needed in the first place. 

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proverb: Chinchillas can't be bothered. Can you?


End file.
